( he's only so confident with what he says because, once upon a time, he'd been the same. had done the same. had been a man on edge who'd used that edge to intimidate and get what he wanted, and though it's difficult to say he's entirely different know, how he uses it is.
there's no killing of anyone that doesn't deserve it, even if it's by rules that marc's drawn up. there are second chances, for those that do deserve it, and there are no guns. marc knows who he is with a gun in his hand, and that man had died in a desert years ago. )
Yes, ( he agrees. bullets are expensive. hopefully that means he won't encounter too many people threatening to shoot him. it's a thought that occurs to him but doesn't sit plainly in his expression — that, instead, is watchful. he doesn't quite relax when she lowers her gun, but he does shift his weight — more open, slightly lowered hands, grip less tense around his truncheon — as his gaze tracks back down to the asshole at his feet.
he makes a vague, discontented noise of consideration. ) There was a woman in the stairwell. ( he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, skin obscured by the (mostly) white of his gloves.
it's slightly less of a costume than what he'd usually opt for in violent circumstances. those are typically moon knight's work, which means cape and armor and sap gloves; here and now, he's in the attire more suited to mr. knight, the sort of thing designed to leave an impression but not overtly threatening except for how out of place it is — tie, waistcoat, shirt, chelsea boots. it's a deliberate message, one marc enjoys, and while it very much is a costume — marc spector in and of himself had never gravitated towards three-piece suits — it's less of one than is typically found in his line of work. )
no subject
there's no killing of anyone that doesn't deserve it, even if it's by rules that marc's drawn up. there are second chances, for those that do deserve it, and there are no guns. marc knows who he is with a gun in his hand, and that man had died in a desert years ago. )
Yes, ( he agrees. bullets are expensive. hopefully that means he won't encounter too many people threatening to shoot him. it's a thought that occurs to him but doesn't sit plainly in his expression — that, instead, is watchful. he doesn't quite relax when she lowers her gun, but he does shift his weight — more open, slightly lowered hands, grip less tense around his truncheon — as his gaze tracks back down to the asshole at his feet.
he makes a vague, discontented noise of consideration. ) There was a woman in the stairwell. ( he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, skin obscured by the (mostly) white of his gloves.
it's slightly less of a costume than what he'd usually opt for in violent circumstances. those are typically moon knight's work, which means cape and armor and sap gloves; here and now, he's in the attire more suited to mr. knight, the sort of thing designed to leave an impression but not overtly threatening except for how out of place it is — tie, waistcoat, shirt, chelsea boots. it's a deliberate message, one marc enjoys, and while it very much is a costume — marc spector in and of himself had never gravitated towards three-piece suits — it's less of one than is typically found in his line of work. )
He thought his wants mattered more than hers.